blood squirting all over the white clothes of the bedroom, and the bed indelibly stained with blood.
What was also tormenting was the thought that Juliette would never forgive me the loss of Spy. She would be horrified at the mere sight of me. I wrote her letters of repentance, assured her that from now on I was going to be satisfied with what little attention she might give me, that I would never again complain, that I was not going to reproach her for her behavior; my letters were so humble, so self-degrading, so vilely submissive that a person other than Juliette would feel disgusted on reading them. I sent them with a messenger whose return I would anxiously await on the corner of the Rue de Balzac.
"No answer!"
"Are you sure you did not give it to the wrong person? Did you deliver it to the party on the first floor?"
"Yes, Monsieur. The maid even said to me: 'No answer1'"
I went to her house. The door was opened only to the extent allowed by the chain lock which Juliette, fearing me, had ordered put on, since the evening of that terrible scene; and through the half-opened space I could see the mocking and cynical face of Celestine.
"Madame is not in!"
"Celestine, my good Celestine, let me in, please!"
"Madame is not in!"
"Celestine! My dear little Celestine. Let me go in and wait for her. I'll give you a lot of money."
"Madame is not in!"
"Celestine, I beg of you! Go and tell Madame that I am here, that I am all right now. . . that I am very sick. . . that I am going to die! And you shall have a hundred francs, Celestine. . . two hundred francs!"
Celestine looked at me slyly, with a mocking air,
